Dear Mom,Thank you for sending the Whore Barbie. It really is the perfect gift for an eight-year-old. How clever of you to find a loophole to my rule against Bratz dolls. Your granddaughter has been having a great time playing ‘Sure you’re not a cop?’ and ‘Run, there’s my pimp’.

Oh I know, Whore Barbie is a model. And I know models often walk around in black lace mini-skirts, fishnet hose, and high boots with their hips jutting out and their hands on their asses. But still. Let’s call a ho a ho. The platinum blonde hair makes her look a little like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Endearing as the movie was, the hooker-with-the-heart-of-gold plot is tough to explain to a third grader.

Maybe you didn’t notice the half-closed eyes, but you can’t ignore purple and gold eye shadow and frosty pink lipstick. The doll’s a walking blowjob. And you can’t tell me that leopard print purse isn’t holding the Blackberry she uses to process PayPal payments from the tech savvy, corporate johns.

It’s not just me. Whore Barbie’s not even allowed to play with her wholesomely anorexic counterparts. It states clearly on the back of the box:

I believe it is your moral responsibility to find the thing that makes you lose track of time, the thing that empties all the racing thoughts from your head and leaves you deaf to the oven timer so you forget about the cookies until the smoke finds you.